A Rose for Emily

stop bothering me with your questions and your fake i.d.
nobody in this world has a clue.
everybody is so flamingly dumb.
except me. i'm a genius. i have a perfect memory.
i have killer good lucks. and i live with my mother.
i can't wait till Paris Hilton doesn't make any money anymore.
i can't wait till people don't pay attention to Britney Spears.
more people should read my notes and pay me for it.
then maybe i can move out of my mom's house.
to my credit, at least i am writing a book.
when i give out too much information, it no longer becomes a piece of writing but a piece of diary.
i keep trying to get away, but it keeps dragging me back. the inernet.
i feel like i know something, but i don't really know, dear diary. how much of an impact am i making on this web? can you feel my reverberations from across the globe? have we reached the Shangrila and happy days of yore? or are we still tearing up old fragments?

you with your judgements and classifications. with your dopamine and internet access on your mobile device. And your bad advice. stop judging me from your ivory tower and your pastoral novels.

is there enough time in the world to read the opinions of everyone writing down their opinions in the world at this very second? Boom. A thousand zephyrs and stallions. She wrote a poem about me once. It was delightful. I think she went to Argyle High, but I am losing my hair.

Who reads this rubbish ever? Could anyone find as much enjoyment in reading it as I do in writing it? I REALLY like my own writing. But the problem with my popularity as an author/poet/minstrel/phone

rings...is that I am too brutally honest. I won't hide the fact that I remember exactly where I learned every word and phrase that I write down. I borrow other people's snippets of voices and fit them into my own verse.

that is how i can convince myself sometimes that the CIA is after me, and I am really the butterfly that affects all weather patterns on the internet and the world. nobody and everybody reads what i am writing at this point. i am the most read author in history. i write ALL opinion at once. the universe goes through me.

humility is something the prophets used to hide their brutal honesty. Brutish beasts... and men have lost their reason (that's Shakespeare).

but what do you know with your misinformed intentions and incomplete retentions. Attention Attention all passengers, this is not a drill. And we waited for the bill to come. The meal was over. The conversation done. Now was the twilight between consumption and production, between the swipe of the fork and the stroke of the ballpoint pen.

That's nice. I am not afraid.